She won't come -- she was torn by the dogs,
Beaten to death by the skinheads,
A crack in a treacherous ice

Her hands weren't prepared to fight,
not wanting to win
I'll be instead of her

She's swimming in the formalin,
The imperfection of lines
Is moving slowly
I have her face, and her name
And my blue sweater's the same,
Nobody noticed this change

She won't come -- her hands were in snakepit
Her head in the wasps' nets
And her back in the ant-hill

I'm stronger than her
Deserve taking her place
I'm better at so many things

She's swimming in the formalin
Moving slowly
In the thick white fog
I have her face and her name
Nobody noticed the change
I'm checking the keys in the pocket

Perhaps I'm playing something wrong
I don't know these people
Smiling a little strange

If they suspect that I'm not her
I don't know what's coming-
I'll pretend being drunken or ill